


The Trouble Is

by thegables



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Hidden Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mycroft is like... so repressed, Sickfic, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, also a Lot of Glances, falling in the thames as is customary, gay sex occurs!, romantic concern!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegables/pseuds/thegables
Summary: Mycroft Holmes always tries not to look back at Detective-Inspector Lestrade when he walks away from a meeting. But after an illness puts them together, Lestrade doesn’t let him look away anymore.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 34
Kudos: 332





	The Trouble Is

**Author's Note:**

> Lol I have no idea what i'm doing in this fandom but I love people admitting they're in love despite their best efforts to conceal it! Sue me!! Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> Also, just a reminder that all cops are bad and based in systems of racist surveillance and violence. Romanticizing fictional specific cops is not intended to suggest that the concept of cops is cool. They are uncool.

By the time Mycroft pulls up to the crime scene, they’re almost done securing and sweeping everything, which is how he likes it. When he gets out of his low black car, Sherlock is already groaning. “It’s excellent to see you as well, brother mine,” Mycroft says, sarcasm tempered by weariness. It’s after midnight now.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock is the only one at the scene with bright eyes and alert mannerisms. The uniforms are working doggedly to bag the last of the evidence. John Watson is leaning against the boot of a police car, checking his phone. And Detective-Inspector Lestrade looks like death warmed over. His suit is creased and rumpled, his shoes are caked with mud, his stubble is growing in, fuzzy and silver-dark, and his hair is flopped to one side. Far worse, there are deep, bruise-like shadows under his eyes, he’s unusually pale under the streetlights, and his voice, when he speaks to Mycroft, is thick and hoarse with a burgeoning cold. “Mr. Holmes,” he says. “We’re almost done here.”

“Mycroft always shows up when the hard work is done to tell you how it _should_ have been done,” Sherlock points out. He’s now lounging next to John against the car, typing very quickly into his phone.

“That’s because your brother has a different job than we do, you git,” Lestrade says, and surreptitiously scrubs at his nose with the back of his wrist. “He doesn’t bag and tag old cigarette butts all day.”

“What a romantic career you’ve chosen,” John remarks, only half looking up.

“I’m afraid mine isn’t any more romantic,” Mycroft says, getting on with it. “Are you aware that this little case you’ve been fumbling away at is not an isolated incident?”

“Are you talking to me or to Lestrade?” Sherlock asks without putting away his phone. “If you must drone on, talk to me, Lestrade’s worthless today.”

“Sherlock!” John tuts without any real heat.

“I appreciate the support, mate,” Lestrade croaks, breaking off to cough. It’s deeper and less controlled than Mycroft was expecting. He winces.

“The Detective-Inspector is clearly unwell,” Mycroft says, grateful for an organic chance to mention it. “Perhaps he should defer the opportunity to pick up cigarette butts in the middle of the night until he has recovered.”

Lestrade smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. When he turns toward Mycroft, Mycroft can see how raw and red his nose is, his lips chapped and white. It should be repulsive, a signal of contagion and itchy, painful, draining illness, but Mycroft doesn’t feel repulsed. He feels, abruptly, quite concerned. It’s cold out here on the street corner, and Lestrade works long hours as it is. This case, Mycroft knows from a detailed survey of the paperwork, has been a grueling one.

Lestrade says, “No rest for the wicked, Mr. Holmes. Or the wicked-catchers.”

“Your case has concluded now, however. As my precocious brother suggests with his remark about my presence. I’m here to let you all know that the corners you cut in the course of this process will be neatened up. The British government is on your side, in this unlikely case. Surely your paperwork can wait until morning.” Mycroft is aware that he’s staring. It’s just that Lestrade legitimately looks like he might fall over.

He coughs wetly again into his fist. “It’s true that we’re just about done here. Since you came here in person, Mr. Holmes, perhaps you have something more detailed you want to say? Go ahead, then.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “The ear I need is my brother’s, Detective-Inspector. You should be on your way. I need you gone, as a matter of fact. This is a matter of some Holmes privacy.”

“Does that mean I get to go home?” John says, lifting his gaze from his phone. He looks tired too, but nothing as dim and weakened as Lestrade.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says.

“In that case,” Lestrade says. He sniffles, then gropes suddenly for a tissue from his pocket to muffle a pair of ragged, hitchy sneezes.

“Bless you,” Mycroft says, aiming for dry and ironic, and aware that he’s failing.

“Thanks. In that case, I’ll be heading out.” He stuffs the tissues back in his pocket, picks up his last evidence bag, and heads back to his car. Because Sherlock is there, Mycroft knows he can’t even risk a glance. He listens to him go instead.

“What is it, then, that can’t be divulged for Lestrade’s tender and probably infected ears?” Sherlock asks, putting down his phone at last.

Mycroft reminds himself that he’s there to do a job. He lays down the rules.

Sherlock half-listens, interjects rudely, and is generally himself. It’s strangely comforting. When Mycroft finishes, he says, looking up, “You know Lestrade has a chest cold and not antibiotic-resistant tuberculosis, right? At least, I don’t think he does.”

“I’m not particularly interested in diagnosing the Detective-Inspector’s affliction,” Mycroft drawls. God, he’s good at lying to everyone on earth except his little brother.

“You’re concerned.” Sherlock straightens and flings his scarf over his shoulder again. “Come on, John, we might as well go home, Mycroft refuses to say what he means, as usual. We’ve got to break into the embassy first thing anyway.”

“Good night, brother.”

“You’re concerned, and it’s pointless!” Sherlock calls as he coaxes John out to the main street so they can find a taxi.

~~~

In the morning, Mycroft knows he could handle the newest crisis with a phone call, but he’s always liked doing things in person, and—well, the justification doesn’t work, at least not to himself. He might as well be personally honest. He both wants to see Lestrade and hopes that he’s not there. He should be at home, resting, using a humidifier, bringing back the bright and canny wisdom to his eyes, the slight smirk to his mouth, healthy colouring to his rugged face. When Mycroft strolls seamlessly into New Scotland Yard in the morning, using override cards and IDs to pass through every checkpoint, he decides to hope that Lestrade is absent.

But when he gets to Serious Crime, Lestrade is in his office as usual, in a fresh suit but without having shaved. His stubble is thicker now, more like the start of a beard, darker than the hair on his head but with a silvery sheen. It looks full and rough, scraping to the touch. Lestrade himself doesn’t look much better for the night of sleep. He’s still extremely pale, his face bloodless and drawn, and his shoulders are slumped in his chair. When Mycroft comes in, he’s finishing a coughing fit, delivered fitfully into his elbow, deep, barking coughs that shake his shoulders.

When he sees Mycroft, he bites the last ones back, clears his throat. “Excuse me, sorry,” he says, straightening up. “What do I—eh-ahem—owe the pleasure to, two days in a row, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft is abruptly uncomfortable, his skin crawling, and he doesn’t know whether it’s one of a hundred possible factors causing it. “When you say Mr. Holmes you sound merely displeased with my brother. Mycroft is fine. Say the Holmes you mean.”

Lestrade grins, suppressing another cough. “I assure you, I never give Sherlock a formal name, even as a joke.”

There’s a little lull then, Lestrade gulping at a cup of coffee. Mycroft momentarily forgets what he’s come to say. He’s too busy cataloguing the red irritation of Lestrade’s normally healthy, masculine nose. After a moment, he realizes he can hear the DI breathing, a low, congested sound. It makes him wince, a little throb of concern in his chest.

Finally, as if Mycroft is taxing his limited patience, Lestrade says, “How can I help you, then, _Mycroft_?”

“Ah, yes. My brother and his associate have had a busy morning.”

Lestrade groans.

“Breaking into the Spanish embassy. The police will be called in—approximately 11 minutes. The trouble is—.”

A sharp look of understanding crosses Lestrade’s tired face. “You _want_ him to. This is part of your plan.”

“I’m not entirely terrible at getting my brother to fulfill my wishes, Detective-Inspector. Especially if the task appears—how should we say, disruptive, rather than obedient.”

Lestrade laughs, but it catches in his throat and makes him cough. A stab of concern, feeling like real pain, slices through Mycroft’s chest.

“I need someone with a, let’s say, detailed understanding of the situation to go down and arrest Sherlock and John. And promptly let them go.”

Lestrade moves to pick up his phone. “I can have dispatch direct the call to me,” he says, “it’s no problem.”

“I didn’t say it had to be you,” Mycroft says, too hastily, and wills himself not to blush. “I might have originally intended it, but it would make sense to send someone in your stead. Sergeant Donovan, perhaps.”

Lestrade looks confused. “I mean, I’m here. Around here Sherlock is my responsibility. I guess when he’s in the heating ducts of an embassy he’s yours.”

Mycroft sighs. “Whenever he’s not here, he’s my responsibility. But still—I don’t want to send you on a long errand across London. I can see that you’re not feeling well. You should rest.”

Lestrade grimaces, as if he’s been found out. “Never known you to fuss, Mycroft. I’m alright. It’s only a cold.”

Only-a-colds don’t make you cough like that. Mycroft is not a doctor and not generally very interested in the human body but he knows that much. “It’s raining,” he says, knowing that he’s quickly giving up his pretense of disinterest. “Don’t aggravate your cold on my account.”

Lestrade is about to retort in kind, but he has to stop to cough, a deep, chesty thing, worse than before. It’s clear that this fit wears him out. By the end he’s slumped back against his office chair, his face flushed against the pallor. There is a tight seal of anxiety for him in Mycroft’s stomach.

“Sergeant Donovan,” Mycroft raises his voice slightly. “DI Lestrade has an errand for you to run.” He lays down a file with information the police are allowed to have. It’s a thin file. He knocks the top of Lestrade’s desk with two fingers, aware that it’s covered with germs, not able to care. “Please take care, Lestrade,” he says, forgetting to use his laborious job title. “Inspectors with bronchitis have historically had a hard time controlling my brother.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lestrade cracks as he leaves, but his voice is so hoarse as to be at half volume. It takes every ounce of energy Mycroft has not to turn and look as he leaves.

~~~

The trouble is that the Spanish embassy leads Sherlock on a goose chase to the Chelsea Embankment. That’s not where the thing is buried, Mycroft knows that, and he suspects Sherlock knows it too, but he might think there’s a clue, a next step to a next step. Mycroft doesn’t normally like to make so many in-person appearances—he has to go to Berlin in a matter of days, and the Thames shoreline has far fewer throw rugs and cappuccinos than his office does—but he started his mess and he probably needs to finish it. That and he’s concerned about his brother, admittedly, who Anthea reports has gone into the river off a tugboat. “Don’t tell me the details,” he says to Anthea as he puts on his coat. “They’ll only delay the process.”

The trouble is that when Mycroft arrives, everything is wrapping up, much like usual, and Sherlock is already under a paramedic’s blanket, hair streaming down his face, having his hands chafed for warmth by John, who is both irritated and wild with concern. Mycroft tags that development to return to another day.

“Are you alright?” He demands of his brother.

“The Thames is b-b-balmy,” Sherlock says, “but I barely went in waist-deep.” He gestures to the paramedics. “They’re not here for me.”

A spike of anxiety goes through Mycroft’s guts. “The suspect isn’t here,” he says, though that’s not what he cares about.

Sherlock scoffs. “No, your precious DI decided to martyr himself to retrieve the drive. It’s _electronic, Lestrade!_ ” Sherlock raises his voice for the unseen detective. “Once it goes into the river it’s useless anyway.”

“That’s not true,” Mycroft says sharply, at the same time as Lestrade’s hoarse, disembodied voice.

Moving more quickly than he has in some years, he goes around the car and finds Lestrade sitting on the edge of the ambulance, wrapped in two blankets and still leaking stinking Thames water on the ground. His eyes are unnaturally bright, with a feverish lack of focus. He looks up at Mycroft with rueful regret, and attempts a smile. “They retrieve things off those drives after they’re supposedly ruined all the time,” he rasps, coughing. “And it was a matter of national security, eh?”

“Lestrade,” Mycroft murmurs, something constricting in the area of his heart. “Don’t tell me you went into the Thames after that blasted flash drive.”

“Duty calls, Mycroft.” When he tips his chin up to make eye contact, there’s a question there, in addition to weariness and fever. _Did I do it right? Did I do it how you wanted?_ Mycroft can’t catch his breath.

“This was very foolish, Detective-Inspector, very foolish indeed.”

“Oh, probably.” Lestrade’s lips are still a little blue. His eyes are actively bloodshot, little rims of red circling a network of tiny vivid blood vessels. He’s shivering so violently that it’s difficult for Mycroft to hold his gaze. His hair is slicked back and to the side with frigid river water. His voice is almost inaudible, and it’s evident that it pains him badly to speak. And yet he’s speaking to Mycroft Holmes. “I’m a bit known for foolish things.”

“Lestrade,” Mycroft says again, knowing he’s sputtering. “You were ill before—this was surely a poor idea, if you risk your health—.”

Lestrade’s eyes have slipped closed. “I’m just tired. I’ll heal up, don’t you worry. I just can’t—” he struggles to even get enough breath to cough. “I just can’t get warm. But really, I don’t know why you’re so worried about me. Don’t you ever get a cold?”

Mycroft is beginning to suspect that he knows why he’s so worried; really, if he’s honest, he’s been suspecting for weeks, maybe months. But the worry is such that he isn’t really in control of himself anymore. It’s the first time that’s happened in many years. “Of course you can’t get warm. You have a fever.” He steps up, crowding Lestrade, and puts the back of his hand on the inspector’s forehead. Through the clammy chill of his skin, he can feel a startlingly high fever raging. At the same time, he’s painfully aware that it’s the first time they’ve ever touched. Lestrade is death warmed over, stinking of the Thames with lungs full of phlegm, but he’s still Lestrade, still silver-haired and dark-eyed, with broad shoulders and messy accent, east London long integrated into Westminster. He still hasn’t shaved and he looks distinctly— _rugged_. Mycroft hates himself. He’s spent 30 years cultivating self control, only to lose his grip at the hands of this mid-level Met Police employee with the masculine bearing of an old school copper and the gravitas to be a real help to Mycroft’s office and the wit and patience to handle Sherlock and the eyes of a—oh, of a man, a really fit man, and the cough of a man who had a chest cold until he went into the frigid Thames and now is probably on his way to pneumonia. Shit. Absolute shit. Mycroft’s stomach is a stone inside him.

“You have a fever.”

“Do I?” Lestrade seems disoriented, which sends a fresh spike of anxiety through him.

The paramedics are apathetic, given that no one is actively bleeding, so Mycroft calls John over, trying desperately not to betray his investment while feeling ever more desperate about the inspector’s condition. John looks concerned too, if less panicked than Mycroft feels. He takes his temperature and while the thermometer works, listens to his breathing with a stethoscope. The results done, he turns to Mycroft and gives him the news, as if he’s next of kin. “His lungs aren’t too bad. I would say bronchitis rather than pneumonia. If it gets worse, we should get him an X-ray. The fever is a little concerning, thirty-nine. As long as it doesn’t go higher I would say it’s okay. We need to get him warm.”

“You’re not sending me to hospital just to get me warm,” Lestrade insists. “I have a shower at home, and real food—.” He takes a ragged, slightly crackling breath in that makes Mycroft’s chest hurt too.

“I’m not saying hospital.” John gives the stethoscope back to the paramedics. “I can prescribe you some meds for the infection tomorrow myself. I’m more concerned about what we’re going to do with you now.”

Infinitesimally, almost invisible to the naked eye, John glances back at Sherlock, who’s also in dire need of a hot shower, and even less likely to take care of himself than Lestrade is. Mycroft can see he’s torn.

“Do with me?” Lestrade chokes out. “Nothing. Send me home to bed. It’s not deadly, it’s just a bug.” He starts to stand up, as if to stomp off the scene of his own accord, but he stumbles, his feet unsteady underneath him, and he half-pitches into Mycroft’s chest.

“Whoa, whoa,” John is saying, reaching out to steady him, but really that’s all Mycroft’s job. Instinctively his hands come up to the inspector’s elbows to pull him up, and then when Lestrade doesn’t immediately regain his footing, Mycroft puts a hand on his back, just holding him against his coat lapels. River water is soaking through the blanket. Lestrade’s face is so close to his, pale and beautiful and out of it. Mycroft is frightened—by the illness, probably more by the proximity of their bodies, what it means for his own ability to deny, deny, deny.

Eventually, because Lestrade really isn’t alright, Mycroft has his arms around his waist, holding him up, and helping him back to the edge of the ambulance. “This won’t do,” Mycroft says. “He’s in no condition to go home alone.” Lestrade is divorced, he knows that. Divorced and lives alone, as far as he knows.

“ _No hospital_ ,” the inspector rasps out, which makes him cough. “I’d feel like a fool.”

John’s gaze is anxious when his eyes meet Mycroft’s. “Really we just need to get him warm as soon as possible. He doesn’t live far from here.”

Mycroft glances at his brother, who for once is checked out enough not to use every single gesture Mycroft makes against him. He makes a split second decision because his will is fading about as fast as Lestrade’s consciousness. “I’ll take him,” he says. “The car is waiting for me.”

John’s face gives away nothing but relief. “Thank you,” he says. “I’ll take Sherlock. Call if you need a thing. Get him warm, give him some paracetamol and cough medicine, if he’s got it. I’ll write a scrip first thing in the morning. He really needs to rest.”

Mycroft is memorizing everything John instructs in perfect order. “I understand.” He places a phone call to his driver, who comes up the embankment so Lestrade doesn’t have to walk too far. As John returns to Sherlock, Mycroft says, “Do you mind?”

“Do I mind the secret head of the British government spending his night tucking me into bed?” Lestrade croaked. “The circumstances aren’t ideal.”

Mycroft’s vision nearly whites out when he hears this. He doesn’t know what it means. Probably nothing; Lestrade is asleep on his feet and shivering so violently it takes him two tries to open the car door. He’s not in control of his _implications_ right now.

Mycroft gets into the back seat beside him. “Parker, turn the heating up, please. What’s your address?”

Lestrade gives an address blessedly close to where they are now, a nicer part of town than Mycroft would have expected. As Parker navigates the quiet streets, Lestrade continues shuddering. He hasn’t even been given dry police-issue clothes, apparently, which drastically increases his risk of hypothermia. Desperately, Mycroft says, “Focus on breathing, Detective-Inspector.” He grabs for the detective’s hands and rubs them up and down vigorously, as he saw John doing for Sherlock. They’re not blue by any means, but they’re frigid under his palms.

“That feels—good,” Lestrade whispers, his eyes half-closed.

“Parker,” Mycroft says, in a voice he means to be biting, but sounds more desperate instead.

Parker murmurs, “Understood, sir,” and doubles his speed.

When they arrive at the flat, Mycroft helps Lestrade out of the car. “I can walk, Mycroft, come on,” he says, but he’s shaky enough that Mycroft stands close by. There’s a lift in the building, thank god, and they go up to the fourth floor, Lestrade fumbling for his keys. “Don’t have hypothermia, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he mumbles, leaning heavily against the back wall of the lift. “Had it before, know what it feels like.”

Mycroft, irrationally, feels rebuked. “Forgive me if that does not entirely alleviate my concern.”

“Ah, well. I never knew you to get so concerned. About the state of the union, let alone me.”

“First time for everything,” Mycroft mutters, a vicious lie. Or maybe it’s not. It’s never been Lestrade he’s been worried about—only himself, how he’ll be able to control himself around Lestrade. “If you don’t have hypothermia, what symptom concerns you the most, for diagnostic purposes?” Mycroft is worried about his lungs.

Lestrade shrugs. “Cough hurts. Voice going. Mostly just tired.”

He’s minimizing, for some reason. Bronchitis may not be hospital-worthy but it’s certainly excruciating. Mycroft suffers it from time to time himself. Why won’t Lestrade level with him, admit he feels awful?

He leads Mycroft into the flat, struggling with the keys with frozen fingers. The flat itself is plain, unexceptional, except for a kitchen well-stocked with groceries and cooking tools. Detective-Inspector Lestrade likes to cook. The fact makes something twist inside Mycroft.

“Alright, I’m home,” the inspector says. “Your chivalrous duty has been fulfilled, you can go—” but he breaks off to cough, a desperate, wracking thing that bends him double at the waist. Unconsciously Mycroft finds himself at his side, steadying him by the arm.

“I know you think me a slimy politician who lurks in shadows,” Mycroft says, finding it hard to even say the words, “But I’m not completely without conscience. I can’t leave you in this condition. You’ll faint in the shower.”

“What, are you going to supervise?” Lestrade rasps, and he’s half-dead with illness and cold but Mycroft _swears_ there’s a little edge of lasciviousness in his expression, a minute little challenge. It’s like a surge of electricity goes through each of Mycroft’s nerves. _Oh_. But Detective-Inspector Lestrade is straight, he’s always been straight, it’s pointless to even consider.

Mycroft sets his jaw. “I’m going to stand outside the bathroom in case you _fall and crack your head open_.” Then, for good measure: “That would not be ideal for national security.”

Lestrade looks like he wants to retort but he doesn’t have the energy. “Alright. Make yourself a tea, or whatever.”

Mycroft isn’t willing to stray that far. He follows Lestrade into his bedroom, and sits gingerly on the edge of the made bed while the inspector goes into the ensuite alone. He can hear Lestrade’s coughs reverberating on the tile walls. Soon the shower starts up, steam pouring out of the doorway, but not quickly enough to prevent Mycroft from catching a glimpse of a bare shoulder, a bare hip. It’s too much for him. Even if his attraction was invited and returned, this wouldn’t be the time for it. He squashes his traitorous little surge of arousal.

He feels relieved, though, that Lestrade is getting warm at last. For a moment, the steam and humidity seem to aggravate his cough, but soon the room grows quiet but for the sound of the shower. Mycroft can’t help but look around the room. Snooping is a part of his profession, after all. There’s a print of Hampstead Heath over the bed, pretty and unexceptional, and the sheets are white with a comfortable-looking down comforter. Overall the room speaks to an inhabitant with decent taste and income, no extravagance, who doesn’t spend a great deal of time at home. Before the shower ends, he relinquishes a great deal of his pride and looks in the bedside table. He sees the edge of a condom wrapper in it before he loses his nerve entirely and slams the drawer shut. What else is in there?

He’s distracted from the line of thinking when the shower shuts off, and then, a moment later, there’s a low thud in the bathroom. “Lestrade?” Mycroft calls, voice higher than he’d like.

When Lestrade doesn’t immediately answer, he girds himself (his loins) and rushes into the bathroom.

Lestrade is conscious, but barely, one knee on the closed toilet lid, his hand bracing himself on the tank, trembling a little with the exertion of staying upright. He’s flushed and feverish and, when Mycroft touches him, burning up. He does have a towel slung messily around his waist, to Mycroft’s utter relief. “Christ,” he said harshly, not sure where to touch him. “Stop _doing that_.”

“Doing what?” Lestrade mumbles.

“Fainting—er—I—let me help you, to bed.” He plucks at the inspector’s arm until he slings it around Mycroft’s shoulder, and Mycroft half-carries him back into the bedroom, Lestrade’s warm and wet shoulder and side pressed into Mycroft’s body. He has, god alive, a magnificent hairy chest, with slightly defined muscles and the signs of dignified middle age. There’s a seditious voice in the back of Mycroft’s head. _I would burn down governments for him. I would let everything go._ He swallows the thought and promises to dispense with it, forever.

He rummages in the medicine cabinet until he finds the paracetamol, and makes Lestrade take as many as the label allows, then several more swallows of water.

“Mycroft,” he croaks finally, his face white against the pillows. “There’s nothing to do, now. I just have to sleep this off. Thank you.”

“Well—.”

“Better in the morning. Next time it won’t—be so unpleasant. You’ll—” he coughs. “Have more fun.” He rolls over and is promptly asleep, dead to the world.

Leaving Mycroft to reel.

~~~

He doesn’t sleep much. As early as it’s appropriate, he calls John to check on Sherlock and remind him about the prescription. As expected, Sherlock is fine—nursing a twisted ankle and driving John mad about following the trail on the case. John hasn’t forgotten the prescription. “I called it in, but I can’t pick it up myself. Do you think he’s alright to do that?”

“I can have a member of my staff do it,” Mycroft says too quickly, knowing he’ll go himself. “It’s no use having resources if we don’t use them to protect government employees.”

“Er—yeah—sure,” John says, confused by the intensity of the explanation. “Google says there’s a pharmacy near his place, so I’ll send it there. You can text him for his insurance number, or whatever.”

Mycroft thanks John and rings off. He certainly won’t be waking Lestrade with an awkward text about insurance information. When the clock hits ten, he goes to the pharmacy, pays full price for the antibiotics and inhaler, and goes to Lestrade’s flat. He isn’t sure whether to ring, because he might be asleep, but ultimately Mycroft decides he needs the medicine more. That and Mycroft needs to see his face, ensure he’s not got pneumonia or worse, ensure the color and power and wit are coming back to his face. Lestrade rings him up, and Mycroft goes up in the lift muttering, “Doomed doomed doomed.”

Lestrade lets him in, and Mycroft can’t help himself from making an immediate survey. He’s pale, still, his nose and lips chapped. His hair is mussed from a long lie-in. But he looks far less feverish than he did last night. He’s wearing a long-sleeved gray T-shirt that emphasizes the shape of his chest and a pair of flannel bottoms slung low on his hips. Everything about him is soft, many-times-washed-cotton, sleepy smells of laundry and cough drops and tea. His eyes aren’t so bloodshot now, just heavily bagged. He still looks exhausted and worn through, but no longer seized by disease. It’s unbearable. Mycroft wants to gather him into his arms, take him to bed, hold him for hours, maybe days, until he’s well. No rush. Then they’d indeed “have more fun.”

He’s _straight,_ Mycroft. He’s straight and his bronchial tubes are inflamed and he went in the Thames last night. You’re imposing already. Don’t be so fucking prurient.

“Hi,” Lestrade says, his voice weak. “You’re back.”

Mycroft grabs at his umbrella, his armor. He’s here in his most official capacity, to do a job. Then he can retreat, nurse his crush in private, go back to lurking in the shadows. That’s what he does best. “I brought you your medicine, courtesy of Doctor Watson. Then I’ll leave you be so you can rest.”

“What sort of medicine?”

“Sit down, please, Detective-Inspector, no need to stand on formality with me. You should be resting.”

“Back to Detective-Inspector, are we?” Lestrade mutters, low enough for plausible deniability. Mycroft’s heart seizes, confused and fragile.

He doesn’t know whether the question is really intended for him, so he can’t answer it. “Antibiotics and an inhaler, should help with the cough. Did it—er—keep you up?” It is hopelessly transparent to be asking such a personal question?  
Lestrade clears his throat with difficulty; it’s phlegmy and sore. The mild pain that crosses his face as he does this only makes him look more dignified, more serious and responsible. Despite the pajamas and inhaler in his hand, he still looks like someone who takes justice into his hands, who goes toe to toe with evil. It’s remarkably unfair.

“It might’ve,” he says finally, “but I was so tired that I slept right through. Much better now.”

“As you said,” Mycroft says dryly, and instantly regrets it.

Lestrade turns away from him sharply, under the pretense of reading the inhaler instructions, but Mycroft can tell he’s— _blushing_. This is such a shocking development that Mycroft doesn’t know how to proceed. Lestrade stalls by taking the inhaler, which makes him cough but then stop. Mycroft can almost sense how it’s eased his breathing. “Did you remember all that?” Lestrade asks. “It was so late. I think I must have been delirious.”

They make fraught, sick eye contact—they both know he wasn’t delirious, not exactly. More unguarded. Mycroft has been personally debating the likelihood of these two possibilities for the last 13 hours, but here is a kind of answer.

It doesn’t matter. Lestrade is straight, and whatever he said in a misguided attempt at humor doesn’t have anything to do with Mycroft in particular. It would be foolish to extrapolate anything further from it.

“You were very ill,” Mycroft says, firm and serious. He doesn’t mean it as a reproach. He merely means to show Lestrade that he won’t use what he said last night against him.

Lestrade’s hand comes up to cuff the back of his neck, covering his neat grey hairline. “I suppose that’s true. Couldn’t tell you the last time I had it worse than a cold.”

“Proximity to my brother is a health hazard. Trust me.”

Lestrade smiles dimly, then squints at the pill bottle. “Says I’m supposed to take it with food.”

Mycroft looks to the well-stocked kitchen. “Well,” he said with grand distance, “I suppose you ought to follow those instructions to the letter. Sit down.”

“What for?”

“You’re ill, you should have toast.”

To his surprise, Lestrade doesn’t fight, just sits down at his little kitchen table and pops a cough drop. Around it he says, “Mycroft Holmes is making me breakfast.”

Mycroft looks at him sharply, unsure if he’s heard the implication correctly.

Lestrade, sheepish, looks down at the table.

“Are you dizzy?”

“Not really. Why?”

“You were very dizzy last night. I—was alarmed.”

Lestrade doesn’t answer right away. Finally he says, more quietly than before, “I’m going to ask you this question for the fourth or fifth time, mate. Why are you so worried about me?”

The question, Mycroft is sure, is a trap. Lestrade is trying to tease out the inappropriateness of his conduct, the unwanted intensity of his concern. He can’t admit to those things even though he knows they’re true. He makes his voice as cold and dead as he can, with his signature arch lilt of disinterest. Locks away his concern and affection for this man, his broad warm chest and the lungs underneath it. “Firstly, I couldn’t have you infecting the rest of this city’s police force. The society would fall into ruin. Secondly, if you’re ill you can’t keep my brother in line, and then even _more_ of that responsibility falls to me. I’m trying to listen my load, Detective-Inspector. Would you take jam? I can leave you as soon as I’ve adequately delivered the medicine.”

Lestrade, abruptly, looks about as bad as he did when he was fished out of the Thames. His face is ashen and his eyes are very far away. He shivers for a second, and struggles to catch his breath. He turns his face away from Mycroft, as if he’s heard a sound from somewhere else in the small, silent flat. Then he said, “Understood. I would take jam.”

“Is your fever spiking?” Anxiety tugs in Mycroft’s throat.

“No. I’ve told you, I’m alright now. I have everything I need.” He coughs harshly into his fist.

“Alright.”

“I’ll do my best not to bring the rest of London down with me, Mr. Holmes.”

“I would appreciate it, thank you.” He brings the toast and tea to Lestrade at the table, along with the little pill bottle. He’s standing over him now, looking down at his head and the back of his neck, slightly tan from long days of canvassing, smooth and occasionally freckled with moles, until his hairline starts neatly at the nape of his neck. Lestrade smells and looks like sleep, like a caliber of sleep Mycroft has never personally experienced. His mouth is dry and his stomach is compacting itself to nothing. He feels like hell. “I’ll take my leave then,” he says finally, forcing himself to look away from Lestrade’s body. His voice sounds worse than the detective’s, strangled with coldness.

“Ah—alright. Wait, thank you, Mycroft. I do appreciate it.” Lestrade is half-standing, seeming unsteady, so he sits down again. He looks up at Mycroft with a curious expression on his wan face. Mycroft suddenly remembers how Lestrade looked up at him last night by the water, blue with cold and illness. _Did I do it how you wanted? Did I help?_

With effort he pushes the image out of his mind. “It’s no trouble at all, Detective-Inspector. You can let John or I know if you need anything further. Please rest. I’ll let myself out.”

He leaves without looking back; if he looked back he’d never have been able to go.

~~~

Two days later, he gets a note when he returns to the office from lunch. “Phone call—G. Lestrade,” it says in Anthea’s neat writing.

He bashes back out to her desk, nearly stumbling over his feet. “Mr. Lestrade called when I was out,” he said.

She blinks at him. Anthea has a low tolerance for people restating facts.

“Did he leave a message?”

“No. As soon as I said you were unavailable, he hung up, sir. Didn’t leave a call-back.”

“I see.” Mycroft’s heart is racing. He retreats to his office to calm his pulse. He knows Lestrade’s number quite well; he’s called it a handful of times to discuss Sherlock. But he can’t call it. It would be tantamount to something.

If Lestrade is calling about a case, he’ll call back, or Sherlock will break into his office to ask him a mundane question.

Lestrade does not call back.

Mycroft does not catch his cold, a fact that both surprises and disappoints him. That would be one link, at least. But he supposes he never got quite close enough.

It’s Lestrade’s sheets that he can’t stop thinking about, more than anything. Expensive enough to be comfortable, old enough to be soft and worn and thin. The softness of those sheets and how they smell like Lestrade, like sweat and Vick’s Vapor Rub and stillness. How it would feel to lie down and not be afraid to be still. Still and unalone.

He knows he can purge this from his mind, but it’s going to take a long time. Maybe longer than he has.

~~~

He doesn’t see the inspector, John Watson, or his brother, or hear from them, for another week. But then one of the prime minister’s body guards is compromised, linked to a terrorist cell from the United States. White supremacists, predictably. Mycroft heads to Downing Street to speak to the other officers and to the PM’s chief of staff, a safe scene to attend because there are no dead bodies there and nothing whimsical enough for the likes of Sherlock.

So it leads to a considerable bit of dismay when he turns up at the far end of Whitehall from his office and sees crime scene tape around the perimeter. There’s chalk on the ground. The snap of flash photography and Donovan griping about evidence off in one corner. Mycroft stops in his tracks. There wasn’t supposed to be a body. They aren’t supposed to be here.

But there is Detective-Inspector Lestrade, standing on the curb gesturing to two uniformed officers dusting for fingerprints. He looks about ten years younger but no more or less handsome than the last time Mycroft saw him. He’s in a fresh suit and he’s had his hair cut, a little too short, so it’s got time to grow up before he has to have it cut again. Worst of all, there’s color in his face again; he looks alive and ready to make this sordid little street and sordid little world orderly again. Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment.

“Oi!” Lestrade calls, his voice breaking a bit at the end of it. Mycroft is terrified that he’s calling to him; a second later he’s terrified Lestrade is yelling at Sherlock. Neither turns out to be true. It’s both disarming and comforting to realize that Sherlock and John are nowhere to be seen. They’re alone, here with all of London.

He doesn’t see Mycroft until Mycroft lets himself be seen. Up close he can see that Lestrade is still tired, his voice still thick and hoarse with the ebbing infection. He stops to cough once, and it still sounds bad, deep and resonant, but not nearly as wracking as it was. He’s certainly on the mend.

“Mycroft,” he said when he sees him, his voice warm and friendly through the hoarseness. _Friendly_ , that’s all. Mycroft can feel himself sweating. This is not a suit he permits himself to sweat in. “All healed up. I presume you’re here to meddle in somebody else’s respiratory system? Or judicial system?”

This is the first genuinely good jab somebody’s gotten in in ages. Mycroft laughs, with candor. He can’t help it. “I didn’t think I would see you today, Detective-Inspector Lestrade.”

Lestrade smiles. “You’ve probably got more jurisdiction over where I go than I do. Nothing juicy today, though. Just assisting another team. No Sherlock, no Watson.”

“What a shame,” Mycroft drawls, and this elicits a surprise chuckle from Lestrade.

“The job does get done slower, sometimes. Fewer headaches, however.”

“Imagine cleaning the gutters with him in 1987,” Mycroft said.

“Oh, god. Can’t, wouldn’t.” There’s a little lull, more comfortable than expected. “How can I help you, Mycroft?”

_Change everything about yourself, or possibly move to Siberia, so I stop ruining my suits and Anthea’s life and my life and my sheets, thinking of you._

Mycroft bites his lip. “I’m not here to request a favor, though the lapse may ruin my personal brand. We’re merely crossing paths today. I’m here to see the chief of staff about this—situation.”

Lestrade nods and muffles a cough in his elbow. “Rough meeting.”

“Quite.”

“Outside my jurisdiction, thankfully.”

“Mine too, but here I am anyway.”

They both seem aware that they’re stalling, drawing the conversation out. Mycroft would let the prime minster and the rest of a G8 summit wait all day to keep standing here with this middle-aged straight man with pitiably low security clearance.

“Well,” Lestrade shifts, uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t keep you.”

 _Oh, please do._ “Nor I you. Good luck to you, Detective-Inspector.” He heads to the main gate, to show his credentials to the unbesmirched security guards.

“Wait, hold on—sorry. What do I owe you for the prescriptions? I totally forgot to ask.”

Mycroft smiles as he turns over his shoulder. He is extremely secure in his ongoing decision to break his own heart. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Detective,” he says. “You don’t owe me anything.” Then he’s swept away into the bowels of Downing Street.

~~~

That evening, he goes to the Diogenes very late; he isn’t ready to be alone in his house, all yawning rooms and endless freedom to do anything because there’s no one to bother. The Diogenes is the best kind of aloneness, because it has structure and rules, an aloneness where other people are alongside. Being polite is a kind of togetherness. He’s ready to sink into the place, to read papers and maybe some philosophy and Scotch bottle labels until midnight.

The trouble is that Gregory Lestrade is standing outside the club, leaning against the iron gate. He’s just thumbing through his phone, as if waiting for something. When Mycroft shuffles up, he looks almost relieved. “Do you know how hard it is to find you?” He asks. Oh _shite_ Mycroft wants to kiss him. There’s an intensity, an urgency there that he hasn’t felt before. He swallows it down.

“I make it my business to be hard to find. But if you need my assistance with the investigation, or anything else, you can of course contact my office. Or Sherlock, even.”

Lestrade makes a harsh irritated sound in his throat that doesn’t quite work, given how ill he’s been, and he breaks off to cough briefly. When he’s cleared his throat, he says, “Don’t jump in with business, for once in your life, Mycroft, please.”

A jolt of fear goes through Mycroft so quickly that it’s like pain. It’s not fair to have things you can’t have dangled before you. Whatever is happening isn’t fair.

“How should I jump in, pray tell?” He says finally, when he gets his breath.

He can _see_ Lestrade swallow, past the lump in his throat. He says gently, “Don’t jump in at all, please.”

Mycroft nods, more than willing to be obedient, no matter how it prolongs his pain.

Lestrade clears his throat again, and then proceeds, slowly and methodically. “I know I’m a provincial civil servant. I’m very well aware. I have no security clearance to speak of. I don’t know what goes on at the UN. But I am clever enough to know that you’re a very important person. Far more important than you let on. You have your fingers on—let’s say, a lot of very important buttons.”

Mycroft nods, admitting this. He rather likes the way Lestrade’s put it.

Lestrade goes on, “As I say, I’m not a very important or clever person. But I do my job fair enough, I expect. I can solve a case, sometimes even without your brother. But there’s one thing I can’t figure out. Why did one of the most important men in the United Kingdom put me to bed Thursday last? Pick me up off my bathroom floor and put tissues and cough drops in my hand and put me to bed, once I’d got warm?”

Mycroft opens his mouth but doesn’t speak.

“And then, when I tried to give back any stab of warmth, of plain _friendliness_ , or anything more, did he rebuke me so completely? Retreat and leave, and not call again?” He sighs, tired by this speech. “That’s what I don’t understand.”

Mycroft abruptly wants to sob. _I tried_ , he wants to say. _I tried to leave you alone. Saying no is the least selfish thing I could do, and thus the best. Choosing the selfish thing always leads to disaster and so I walked away at the moment I could least bear it._ He opens his mouth to speak and Lestrade interrupts.

“If you call me Detective-Inspector,” he warns, unsteadiness in his eyes, “I’ll scream.”

Something quakes in Mycroft. He’s starting to wonder something new. “Lestrade,” he says, but no air comes out of his mouth. He clears his throat, tries again. “Lestrade. Is that alright?”

“It’ll do.”

“Lestrade. I’m sorry.”

The man frowns, shakes his head. “That won’t do. Be specific. What are you sorry for?”

God, Mycroft can’t take this. He isn’t strong enough and he doesn’t know the right answer. He doesn’t know how to guess. He feels immensely close to tears for the first time since 2004. “I’m sorry—for intruding on your privacy, at a vulnerable moment. That was not my intent.”

Lestrade reels back, thrusting his hands into his hair and turning away from Mycroft, groaning loudly in frustration. _Hmm. Wrong answer._ “Mycroft!” He cries, voice deep and harsh and masculine on his name. “Let it all go for one godforsaken moment. Try and be human, please. Risk _something._ ”

“Help me,” Mycroft says suddenly, shaking all over. He can hardly stand up.

Lestrade sees this, straightens up. He rubs at his noise, then stuffs his hand in his pocket. “Please,” he says, and it truly sounds like he’s begging. “Why did you take me home and put me to bed when I was ill? When you could have left me with any number of competent keepers? Please tell me the real answer. Get rid of your bloody ironic distance for once in your life. I don’t care what the answer is. Why did you care for me when I was ill?”

There are a thousand things he could say that are technically true. For any of them he would be drawn and quartered by this vibrant and _angry_ man before him. Lestrade knows what he wants.

Mycroft’s shaking so badly that it takes a moment to find the words. Finally he composes himself and says, “The way I felt did not permit me to leave you while you were in distress. I was captive to that feeling.”

Lestrade draws closer to him. Mycroft can see the patch on his neck that he missed shaving, the slight scar over one eyebrow, the fullness of his lips, warmer and pinker than they were last week. He smells like coffee. “That’s good,” he says, almost croons, like he’s encouraging Mycroft over a difficult bridge. “That’s a start.”

Mycroft’s knees are feeling quite genuinely weak. He might need to sit down.

“Have you felt that way—before? Often?”

Mycroft, powerless, nods. All the power has been drained from him.

Lestrade doesn’t look horrified. “And that way you felt—it meant that you wanted to look after me, because I was poorly and wet and frozen and coughing, a right mess?”

With the power goes Mycroft’s will. It’s dizzying to have it gone. “Lestrade,” he says, “I would desire to look after you whether you were perfectly well or otherwise. It’s immaterial.”

Something in Lestrade’s jaw bulges. His eyes seize with tears. He looks overcome. “Is that right?” He says, his voice rough with emotion.

“I’m perfectly aware of the impropriety of such an inclination. It was never mistakenly solicited, I can assure you. You did nothing to encourage it. That’s why I merely attempted to repress it. Badly, I see now.”

Lestrade shakes his head at him in amazement. “You bastard,” he whispers. “You foolish bastard.” Then, in the single most shocking moment of Mycroft’s life, Gregory Lestrade hugs him. Right there on the pavement, in front of the Diogenes, lapel against lapel, Lestrade’s arms strong around him, crushing his chest. One hand comes up to cup the back of Mycroft’s neck. It’s an overwhelming gesture, one that makes Mycroft let out an involuntary _oof._ He can feel stubble on his cheek and smell cough medicine and stale coffee very strongly. Lestrade’s fingers are callused and so, so gentle. “You absolute git,” he whispers fiercely into Mycroft’s ear. Every one of Mycroft’s hairs is standing on end.

“Please,” he begs, but he doesn’t know for what. For clarity, he supposes.

When Lestrade pulls back, he is quite genuinely on the verge of tears. “You think you aren’t capable of tenderness. Or that it isn’t wanted. Do you think there’s no market for your tenderness, Mycroft? You absolutely foolish—” Then he kisses him, harsh and messy and uncoordinated, with so much fervor that Mycroft can hardly stand.

It only goes on for a moment, until Mycroft can metabolize the shock and get his feet under him. His hands are fisted in Lestrade’s coat. “Lestrade,” he stammers, “You don’t mean.”

Lestrade lets out a low cry. “Greg, Jesus Christ, it’s Greg. Come _here_ , for Chrissakes.” Then, a little invitation, he only tips his head.

Mycroft doesn’t know what he’s doing, but his body does. He listens for the first time. He steps up so that his feet are even with Lestrade’s. He puts his hands on Lestrade’s neck, his warm, throbbing, perfect neck, and leans in to kiss him. His lips are soft, softer than seems possible in the web of stubble around them, and his mouth is hot. He moans a little bit into Mycroft’s mouth, offers his tongue, has it taken up. His hands are inside Mycroft’s coat, between its lining and Mycroft’s suit jacket. He grabs at the small of Mycroft’s back, pulling him closer. _I don’t know what I’m doing_ , Mycroft thinks again, but it turns out that his hands do. He cups Greg’s chip in the webbing between his forefinger and thumb and kisses him, so thoroughly that they’re both panting. Mycroft is already mostly hard in his trousers, here outside of his gentleman’s club. He is certain it can’t be the same for Greg, who is after all only kissing _him_ , but then he loses his footing a little and his thigh presses between Greg’s legs and finds a very convincing bulge there. Greg gives a sharp, whimpering intake of breath, overcome with arousal. Mycroft keeps his thigh where it is. He is only vaguely aware that he’s being _pawed at_ by London’s most reliable detective.

Finally, tormented to the point of pain by heat and desire, they pull back. They’re both breathing like marathoners. “Finally,” Greg says. “Do you bloody understand? Do you understand the terms under which I want you?”

Mycroft nods. “Yes,” he says huskily. “I’m beginning to understand.”

“Mycroft,” Lestrade says, pressing his face into the taller man’s shoulder. “Do you understand what I mean when I say I want you to take care of me tonight?”

~~~

They have a hard time being composed on the drive back to Theobalds Road. Parker would never breathe a word, of course, but he is still there. Mycroft isn’t in the least prepared to think about what this will mean. But when they’re alone in the house, at last, and Greg is chasing him up to the bedroom, he doesn’t have to.

“Posh digs,” Greg says, appreciative, but he doesn’t tease more. “Are you nervous?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but at himself. “Unbearably.”

Greg smirks. “You want me to help you relax?”

“Yes, I—er—rather would, but you first, please, I made you a promise.” He leans in close, breathes into Greg’s ear. “I want to take care of you.” He’s done this before. Not frequently, and not recently, but enough to know the basics. It’s become clear that his body will do it whether he gives permission or not. As long as Greg should say the word.

At this proclamation a delicious shiver goes through the detective, unrestrained. “Jesus, that’s hot,” he breathes. Suddenly he pulls back to cough a little, into his elbow. “Sadly the metaphor might be a little too literal at times.”

Mycroft just smiles at him, lets him catch his breath.

“I’m assured it’s not contagious any longer.”

Mycroft laughs suddenly, loud and booming. “I don’t care about that at all. Any of it. Cough whenever you need. I want to make you feel better.”

Greg can’t hide the size of the smile from his face. “I don’t know why—it feels so incredible to hear you say that.”

Mycroft crowds up to him, puts his fingers to Greg’s shirt buttons even though he’s still wearing his jacket. He unbuttons first, then strips the jacket, the shirt, then the slim-fitting white undershirt, which is a fantasy for another day. Into Greg’s ear he says, “I was hoping I’d catch your cold, you know.”

For some reason this makes Greg absolutely gasp with arousal. His erection is quite evident beneath his trousers, which is where Mycroft’s heading next.

“It would be incontrovertible proof that we were together, that we were close to each other, that I was with you in a vulnerable state.”

Greg whimpers a little into Mycroft’s neck. “Yes,” he breathes.

“Are you in a vulnerable state now, Gregory?”

Greg nods, his pupils blown, his mouth swollen and pink from kissing. He’s an utterly different man than the one Mycroft visited in his office merely ten days before. “I’m going to make you feel so much better,” he says, his breath hot on Greg’s bare shoulder. “Get into bed, please.”

Lestrade complies, but then whines, “No, you too, please, clothes off.”

Mycroft is suddenly shy, but he fights through it, shucking his Hermes suit and white shirt and tie, carefully discarding his cufflinks on the dresser. He stands there in his boxers and socks, and then strips off the socks and garters, more slowly, looking at Greg.

“Jesus, why do I love those garters?”

Honestly, Mycroft admits, “I have no idea.”

“You look incredible,” Greg marvels. “Don’t hold back, don’t punish me like that.”

“I have no interest in punishing you, Gregory,” Mycroft hazards, and to his delight, _Gregory_ gets the reward of a gasp from the detective.

“Need your hands on me, please.”

They struggle together with Lestrade’s trousers and boxers until they’re both naked in the bed, the sheets more luxurious than at Greg’s flat but much less fantasized about. Mycroft makes him lie back, looms over him with one knee between Greg’s legs on the bed, hands propped up either side of his head, so he can kiss him, long and slow and thorough. But his will power doesn’t last long. He’s intensely aware of Greg’s cock, rigid and needful between them, and finally he grabs at it, to a shocked little moan from the detective. He’s big, and throbbing, and masculine—it’s more than Mycroft had dreamt of. He caresses his cock too lightly, torturously. “Gregory,” he says, “Do you need me to take care of this for you?”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” is all Greg can manage, so Mycroft smiles and slides down on the bed. He licks a long stripe up Greg’s cock, to the tip, and then closes his lips around it. Greg’s hips are nearly off the bed. But he grabs vaguely at the front of Mycroft’s boxers, trying to palm his evident erection through the fabric.

“Stop that,” Mycroft says, and grabs him a little hard by the wrist, working on a suspicion, and has it confirmed. Greg takes a desperate shuddery breath in, overwhelmed with pleasure. “Let me take care of you. What services you may provide to me later is yet to be determined. Do you understand?”

“Please,” Greg whines. “Need your mouth.”

Mycroft is only too happy to oblige. He swirls his tongue around the head of Greg’s cock, teasing him, until finally he wraps his hand around the base.

“Christ,” Greg pants, suppressing a cough, “you know what you’re doing. You acted like you wouldn’t.”

“You’d be surprised how many privately important men in the United Kingdom know what they’re doing in this arena,” Mycroft says dryly, reaching for some lube from his bedside table.

“I don’t want those men. Just you.”

Mycroft can’t help but take a long, indulgent moment to look at him, this man he’s known professionally for nigh on seven years, this man who gets shot at and bags cigarette butts for a living. He’s on his back in Mycroft’s bed, hair mussed on the pillows, cheeks flushed with arousal, cock hard and prominent, waiting for Mycroft’s attentions. It’s too much to be believed.

“What?” Lestrade says.

Suddenly Mycroft crawls up to kiss him sweetly on the mouth, just loving him. One lube-slicked hand trails down to grip his cock again, sliding up and down, and Lestrade gives a little yelp. “Nothing,” Mycroft says, and goes back to work.

“Do you handle government catastrophes the same way you handle me?” Lestrade asks, grinning, giving a benign little cough.

Mycroft arches one eyebrow. “Gregory, if you’re still speaking, I’m not handling anything adequately.” Then he descends on Greg’s cock, fucking his own mouth with it, taking it deeper for the first time.

Greg gasps, and doesn’t say more, which rather proves the point. Mycroft has forgotten how much he likes sucking cock. He likes how Greg is too distracted to remember to cough, to remember his traumatic week, to speak at all. His thighs are taut and trembling under Mycroft’s hands. He glances up at Greg, whose eyes aren’t closed, who’s staring down at Mycroft bob on his cock with shining amazement. He’s _grateful_ , Mycroft realizes. He _fancies me_.

He tightens his hand on the base of Greg’s cock as he gets closer to orgasm, tongue swirling and sliding. The taste is far better than he could imagined, male and intimate and sex. With a little burst of inspiration, he takes the flat of two fingers and presses them, gently and firmly, over Greg’s entrance, not pushing inside, just laying pressure there.

The result is instantaneous. Greg’s hips buck forward, his cock pressing into Mycroft’s throat, a low cry emitting from his throat. “Mycroft,” he begs, his voice broken.

Mycroft glances up, his eyes wicked. Greg is so beautiful like this, at his mercy. “Show me,” he says sharply, “show me.” Then he descends again, holding Greg everywhere, pumping his cock, teasing his balls, teasing his hole, pressing his tongue against the underside of his cock.

“Mycroft—” Lestrade stutters. “I’m gonna—”

Mycroft ignores him, proceeding still, until Lestrade gives a beautiful gentle cry and comes, hot and fast and hard. Mycroft swallows, unquestioningly, caressing him through it, and then he rises and flops back on the bed beside him.

Greg presses his face into Mycroft’s shoulder, throws an arm over his middle. He doesn’t speak, just heaves his hot breath against Mycroft’s skin.

Mycroft can’t speak either. He’s too overcome by the realization of what he’s just been allowed to do.

When Greg catches his breath, he kisses Mycroft, before he can be warned of the taste of his come in Mycroft’s mouth. But he doesn’t seem to mind. “Take care of me anytime,” he says, and _gnaws_ for a second with his front teeth against Mycroft’s jaw, an intimate and presumptuous little movement that makes Mycroft’s cock jump. “I’ll catch bronchitis again. I’ll swim the Thames.”

Mycroft’s hand is on the side of Lestrade’s neck, feeling his skin, feeling the solid and unending pump of his heart. “That won’t be necessary.”

“No?”

“Please do not catch bronchitis again. It frightened me a great deal.”

“ _Frightened_ you! Mycroft, good lord. It’s just a cold.”

“Let me know the next time the solid and dependable man you fancy, you’ve always fancied, starts coughing up a lung and chasing down flash drives in frigid January rivers. Fainting in your arms. See how feel then.”

Greg makes a short ambiguous noise, neither scoff nor laugh nor cough. “It doesn’t sound pleasant. Don’t get ill, and I won’t have to.”

Mycroft is more than aware of the implication he’s making. He stiffens a little.

Greg turns and presses his chin into Mycroft’s bare collarbone, sweaty skin against sweaty skin. “Don’t pretend you can’t hear me. Don’t pretend it’s impossible that I could fancy you too.”

Mycroft is uncomfortable; it’s overwhelming to accept the possibility of being wanted. He makes a noncommittal sound.

Greg gets up halfway, his eyes bright. His hair is chaotic and the pallor he had last week is totally gone. “You are the most aggravating person I’ve ever known, you know that? How hardam I going to have to work?”

“I don’t want you to have to—do anything.”

Greg groans. “Mycroft,” he says, and then leans forward and _purrs_ it into his ear. “Mycroft. I fancy you. I want to suck your cock. Some day very soon I want you to fuck me. I want to eat breakfast with you. The kind where you sit down too. Do you understand?”

“Ye-yes.”

“Good. Am I to be permitted to—what’d you say, offer my services?” He’s reaching down to the front of Mycroft’s boxers. He’s lost some urgency with the vulnerability of the conversation, but the insistence of Greg’s touch returns him to full hardness quickly.

“I could permit it,” Mycroft says, a smile creeping back to his face.

“Please. It’ll make my lungs feel _excellent_. Do it selflessly, please.” Greg is smirking, kneeling between Mycroft’s legs, his fingers already on the waistband of the boxers.

“You are absurd,” Mycroft says, aware that love is seeping into his voice, unable to care.

“You like absurd,” Greg teases, and pulls down the boxers.

 _I love absurd. I love the sound of your voice, ill or well, I love your eyes, I love—Christ, your mouth_.

As if it’s nothing, Detective-Inspector Lestrade has his lips wrapped around Mycroft’s cock, his eyes bright and merry as if with a conspiracy. The conspiracy is to destroy Mycroft’s composure forever. He moans helplessly as Greg fellates him, the sound coming before he can stop it, feeling Greg’s competent, skillful hands on his nipple, then the base of his cock, then underneath his balls, weighing them gently. It’s too much. He isn’t going to last.

Abruptly, Greg’s face is by his again, smelling of sex, his lips on Mycroft’s chest and neck. One hand works quickly and skillfully on Mycroft’s cock. He hadn’t known a hand job could feel so excruciatingly perfect. Greg’s lips are at his ear, whispering, “You look so good like this. You look so good for me. You took such good care of me, let me take care of you, now, yes, yes.”

It makes Mycroft come so suddenly that neither of them is ready for it, a bone-liquifying pleasure that has him jerking desperately into Lestrade’s hand and then coming all over it, splattering both of them, crying out in an utterly embarrassing way. But Mycroft isn’t embarrassed. He’s come so hard he can hardly breathe. His bones are gone. And when Greg speaks again, his voice is ragged. It’s possible to hear how turned on he is by seeing Mycroft come. “Yes, gorgeous, good.”

Mycroft is crying a little bit, tears falling straight back to his temples, and he’s aware that this is a perfectly reasonable physiological response, a kind of cathartic release can often trigger other endorphin responses, but still it’s a lot, and Greg is holding him, and saying, “Let it all go.”

He contemplates doing something like that for the first time since puberty, with this policeman crouching over him, half-hard cock between their stomachs. It’s strange.

Lestrade relaxes at last, flopping back onto the bed beside him, and Mycroft opens his arm, so that Lestrade will lie on his chest, which he does. His arm drapes over Mycroft’s middle and his fingertips rub softly over Mycroft’s hip. It’s too much. “Are you alright?” Greg murmurs softly. “This is a lot for you.”

Mycroft gives a broken little laugh. “It’s traumatic,” he says, tears in his voice, “to get all you’ve ever wanted. What am I supposed to want now?”

Greg presses his face into Mycroft’s chest, kisses his armpit. “More. You’re supposed to want more.”

~~~

The next day, Greg finishes his course of antibiotics, which means he can have a drink again. They meet at six in a police pub in Ealing, football on the televisions and cider sticky on the floor. Mycroft feels even more anonymous here than he usually does.

Lestrade shows him his favorite table, a wooden booth in the back room with initials carved in it, away from the noise. He brings them two pints and promptly slides one foot between Mycroft’s ankles under the table. The room smells like old beer and old wood. It’s strangely pleasant. “I’m pretty sure this is the first time the Black Swan has ever seen a waistcoat in its 120 years of operation,” Greg says. He can’t stop smiling.

“Waistcoats are an ordinary and expected part of the uniform in my profession, Gregory.”

“Yes, of course. Drink your lager, I want to know if you like it.”

“It’s naive of you to think I’ve never drunk a lager. I am very familiar with the stuff.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course, I’m intimately involved in diplomatic relations with the German government, how could I avoid it?”

This makes Greg laugh so suddenly that he has to avoid spitting out his beer. “You’re cheeky,” he says finally. “I always knew you were cheeky.”

“I thought I was a bastard. You went out of your way to reassure me of that fact last night.”

Greg takes a long draught of the beer while somehow, skillfully, keeping his eyes on Mycroft. Finally he swallows, the contraction of the smooth column of his gorgeous throat. “Missed this,” he muses. “If you knew more about _undiplomatic_ relations, you would know that being called a bastard means that your colleague deeply desires to remove your trousers.”

Mycroft frowns. “That has not been my experience in the past.”

Greg laughs. “Well, it’s going to be your experience in the future. If you’ll accept it.” He coughs absently into his fist, the lingering rattle of a waning infection. Mycroft knows it’s not concerning, but he still dislikes the sound.

He leans forward, covering Greg’s hand with his own for a half-second. “Promise me you’ll take it easy until that goes away. On my behalf, at the least.”

Greg smiles, sheepish. “It’s really nothing. I googled it, lingering cough is very common with bronchitis. Doesn’t hurt.”

It hadn’t even quite occurred to Mycroft that the cough would still be hurting him. He worries his bottom lip.

Greg sighs. “I’m fine, Mycroft, honestly. But yes, if it worries you, I promise. I’ll take it very easy. I wouldn’t want to worry you.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you hate this pub?” He glances up to the rugby flags on the wall. “Not your usual kit.”

 _I don’t hate any place I am with you_. For the first time, Mycroft decides to say it out. “I don’t hate any place I am with you.”

Greg blushes, to his surprise, to the roots of his hair. “Alright,” he says, his voice low, “Alright.”

Later, he wants to take an ordinary taxi back to Mycroft’s, but Mycroft insists upon waiting for the car, for security reasons. It’s a compromise, a good omen, to take a chauffeured black car to and from a policemen’s pub in Ealing. They can make it work.

Late, very late, Mycroft fucks him, slow and steady and earth-shattering. They take a shower together, washing the sweat and come and the whole day off their skin. Greg kisses him under the hot water. Mycroft rubs his hand over Greg’s chest, caressing the muscle and silver-dark chest hair. “I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that. All of it,” he admits.

Greg looks up at him, touches his face. “Yes, you could. You could say how long, and it would be alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at thegables.tumblr.com.


End file.
